Our Own Little Game
by Dr.CraneSlaysDemonsForJedi
Summary: While John is away, Moriarty comes to play at 221b Baker Street. And there are some things even the great Sherlock Holmes can't predict. Sheriarty. Johnlock.


**AU: I DO NOT OWN!**

The last thing Sherlock Holmes expected when he returned to his flat at 221b Baker Street on a dreary November night was to be paralyzed on the floor below next to his bed by some foreign drug with his arch enemy James Moriarty smirking down at him, but here he was. And the cold floor boards beneath him were not the only thing chilling the detective to the chore.

"So pretty like this," the criminal mused as he brushed his knuckles over the detective's cheek,"and John and Mrs. Hudson are out for a while, I suppose. Probably shopping for food and things. But whilst you're drugged and we're all alone, let's have a little fun, shall we?"

Sherlock tried to swing his arm to punch Moriarty, but all that he could manage was a small twitch of his fingers, which the criminal noticed and smiled.

"Oh no no no, Sherly," he said,"Drugs Won't wear off for a while. We've got plenty of time. Unless of course your little pet comes back, but something tells me that won't happen for a while."

The criminal wrapped his fingers in the detective's hair and crashed his lips to the paralyzed man below.

All Sherlock could do was widen his eyes in shock. And when he tried to protest, it came out as moan, only encouraging his tormentor further. After a few tense moments, Moriarty broke the heated kiss, panting and laughing.

"There's nothing like it," Jim said,"Seeing you on the floor. Spread in front of me. I could do anything I wanted to you right now. Anything at all. And you would be absolutely powerless to stop me. And I'll let you in on a little secret. That power alone over you gets me off as much as you do when you get a case."

Moriarty looked down and turned Sherlock's head to the side, kissing his neck.

"The adrenaline."

Kiss.

"The thrill."

Kiss.

"And everything in between."

The criminal ran a hand down the the detective's chest.

"Angel's hate destruction," Moriarty breathed as he sat back on his heels," They don't get off on it. But Devil's? Devil's do. It's what they live for. And you, my pretty little unique angel, will fall from heaven a second time. But I will make sure, your wings our clipped so there won't be any rising again. And you can say you're not one of them all you like, but I know, Sherlock. We were both wrong on that rooftop."

Sherlock heard Moriarty leave the room. In the precious few seconds before Moriarty entered the bedroom again, Sherlock tested his abilities. He could twitch his foot now. More then he could move a few moments ago, but nothing close enough to even attempt to think of an escape.

He didn't try calling out. He knew the drug Moriarty gave him wouldn't allow it. Moriarty wouldn't be that stupid.

Then, Moriarty returned. He knelt down next to Sherlock and pressed the gleaming tip of a knife to his cheek once, before removing it quickly and standing. Sherlock had expected a knife or gun, and had braced himself. But he knew Moriarty wouldn't just kill him and get it over with. No. Moriarty was going to drag the session out until the detective below was in complete and utter agony. And that chilled Sherlock. But he refused to show it. He just looked dully at the object and it's person. He wouldn't allow Moriarty the satisfaction of knowing he was doubting himself, even though Sherlock knew the criminal probably guessed the feeling.

If he did, Moriarty didn't show it.

"You know, Sherlock," he began slowly, sitting on the other man's bed,"I've always searched for destruction in my life. Always. And when I destroyed you. I won't lie, I felt like king of the world. Even wanted to buy myself a little crown that said great destroyer on it. But then. Then you came back. And that. Well, darling, it really pissed me off. I mean do you know how expensive your failure was? And how long it took me to plan it?"

Moriarty stood and walked around the small darkened room, pressing the knife tip gently to his thumb on his left hand.

"You were my destruction, Sherlock," he continued, staring out the window and turning his back to the detective,"And anything I had ever broken before, stayed broken. And then you came along. Outsmarted me. And for the longest time, I sat in a dark room only thinking of revenge."

Sherlock couldn't see the criminal's face, but he could hear a small hiss escape the man's lips.

"At first I thought about kidnapping John torturing him and leaving him some place to rot. Oh, the headlines would have been glorious! 'Detective goes into rage and kills psychotic with his bare hands!' Love newspapers. Or maybe go have a chat with big brother. Kill him. Watch the government topple a bit. But then I considered the variables. I mean don't get me wrong, I could melt the iceman if I wanted too. But I wasn't ready to get caught, not yet. Then I thought, maybe come to the flat. cause a ruckus and have the land lady come up and I could clean up. Then again, she wouldn't be much fun. Probably have a heart attack after the first five minutes. And finally I thought about picking up my little ex Molly for a chat, since she helped you beat me. And then... it hit me."

The criminal turned to his prey below with a look of pleasure and hatred as he saw the rage on the detective's face. Moriarty leaned down and placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek as he whispered into the brunette's ear.

"You cheated, Sherly," he growled,"This was our game. Not John's. Not Molly's. This was our own special little pass time and you cheated to win. So, Sherlock, just one question then on to business, my dear. How many pawns are willing to sacrifice for the sake of the king before the game is done?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt Moriarty trace his cheekbone with his thumb, which was extremely cold and wet for some reason. He would later discover the mastermind had stabbed his thumb and traced Sherlock's cheek with Moriarty's blood.

"Now," Moriarty said,"Your little pet should be back soon with the old windbag."

Sherlock opened his eyes as he tried to say John wasn't a pet, but the protest came out as a weak groan.

"Oh shh, shh, shh, shh, shh. We still have time for some fun, love," the criminal said, placing the knife to Sherlock's causing his mouth to open and a cut to form.

The knife traveled down Sherlock's chin, across his shoulder blade, and down to his forearm where the villain rolled up the paralyzed being's sleeve.

"I think here's a good place to start," the criminal said,"Don't you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly in confusion as he looked at the side of the bed. He wasn't able to see Moriarty's face but a person who have to be dumber than Anderson to not hear the smile in his voice.

When Sherlock felt the cold tip press against his forearm, he knew what Moriarty was planning and he felt sick to his stomach.

The next half hour was filled with pain as Moriarty carved into Sherlock's skin. He couldn't even have the slight comfort of yelling out. Instead all that filled the room were the short heavy breaths Sherlock was taking and the sound of blood and sweat dripping to the floor.

Once Moriarty was finished, he stood up and admired his work. He couldn't help but smile as his own little destruction sweated as shivered below him. It was intoxicatingly beautiful how much pain could bring out the beauty in people.

Moriarty loved how the blood seemed highlighted against Sherlock's pale skin. And how the tears forming in the detective's eyes brought out the blue in them. Beautiful.

The sound of a car rolling up stopped Moriarty's examination of the specimen below and he sighed smiling slightly.

"Well, love," the devil said kneeling down by his angel again,"This has been very fun, but I simply must be going. Places to go, people to slay as a wise man once put it. But don't fret. I'll give you a nice little going away present."

And just before he left the room, Moriarty slit both of Sherlock's wrists.

"Let's see if the doctor is as good as you say he is," Moriarty called back,"Ta ta."

And then the smooth criminal was gone.

As John Watson entered 221b he held the door open for Mrs. Hudson. The elderly land lady had gone grocery shopping and John had agreed to help since Sherlock had run off to God knows where to think.

"Sherlock!" the doctor yelled,"We're home! And we've got some milk since you never bloody got it last week!"

John waited a moment for a retort, but it never came. The former military man put down the groceries and headed upstairs.

"Sherlock," he said.

When he opened the door to the flat, John's eyebrows furrowed. Everything looked normal, but he could sense something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Sherlock should have been back by now.

John walked around to the door to Sherlock's bedroom and twisted the knob.

John nearly fainted as he opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom. Inside held his friend, sprawled on the floor with his wrists slit and blood scarlet bringing color to his friend's pale figure.

"Oh God," he whispered as he ran to his friend.

John got down on his knees shedding his jacket and pushing it down on one of his friend's wrists and undid his friend's scarf using it as another make shift patch.

"Sherlock?," he chocked out,"Sherlock, can you hear me? For the love of God answer me!"

When the only response that came was a moan from the man bellow, John nearly cried.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He yelled,"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Yes, dear," he heard a sweet voice call from downstairs,"What is it, love?"

"We need an ambulance!," he yelled,"Now, don't ask! Just phone for one! And after words bring me a few towels! Now!"

He heard the quick shuffling of feet and frantic muttering a few moments later, as he held pressure on his friend's wounds.

That's when John noticed the marks on Sherlock's arms.

The carving in the detective's right arm said 'Play by the rules' and John's stomach dropped when he saw the carving in the left arm that said 'I.O.U.' The dots were obvious stabs wounds. Moriarty had been in the flat. James Moriarty had been his and Sherlock's place.

"He was here," John gasped quietly,"Oh God, Sherlock, Oh God. I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry. Oh God."

The detective coughed as his eyelids fluttered slightly.

"John," he moaned out weakly.

"Yes," John said,"I'm here. It's going to be all right. I'm here, Sherlock."

Sherlock groaned once again, before his head turned to the side and he went still as the sound of sirens came closer and closer.

"No, no, no," John whispered,"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no."

John heard several footsteps come on the stairs and a familiar husky voice.

"They're in here!," Lestrade yelled.

Lestrade knelt next to John as the paramedics came around Sherlock.

"John," Lestrade said, holding his friend by the shoulders and leading him onto the bed as the paramedics tended to the bleeding pale figure on the ground,"He's gonna be okay. Now tell me, what the hell happened."

John waited for the paramedics to take his friend out the room before he spoke. John hadn't even noticed Sergeant Donovan had been in the room until he heard a thump as the paramedics took Sherlock out, bumping her into the doorway.

"It-It was him," John whispered,"It was Moriarty. He-he was here. Oh God. Sherlock. Oh God. Did you see his arms? Oh oh God."

"John," Lestrade asked," do you know where Moriarty could've gone?"

John just shook his head. Then he broke down. He couldn't keep it bottled up anymore. Everything had just come out. He couldn't help it. Lestrade wrapped his arm around John and led him to the door. He knew how hard this must've been on John and he didn't bother pushing him any further.

"Come on," he said,"We're going to the hospital."

"But sir," Donovan said,"There's been a murder. We weren't even supposed to come-"

"Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade said looking her dead in the eyes,"You're a good cop. But if you say one more word I will have your ass fired before we get back to head quarters."

Lestrade walked down stairs behind the good doctor and turned back when he got to the bottom stair.

"And you," Lestrade said,"Can go take a cab to the crime scene, Sally."

John was silent and collected as Lestrade drove them to the hospital.

Once they were in the nurse's station and had been waiting for about an hour, a doctor came and informed them that Sherlock was stable. They had stopped the bleeding in time, but the cuts were substantial and they were going to need constant attending too. He told the pair he wouldn't recommend any harsh activities when they released Sherlock.

"A week of proper bed rest," the stout doctor said,"We're not sure what he was given, but it was strong. He can speak now. And you can give him a visit."

The doctor then turned to Lestrade.

"But," he said sternly,"I would not question him. Understood? He needs his rest."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. John was getting very antsy now. He just wanted to see Sherlock.

"Look," he said,"Are we gonna be able to see him or what?"

The doctor nodded after glaring at Lestrade for a few seconds before leading John and the detective inspector down a narrow pathway and into a small room where Sherlock was sitting on the bed in a hospital gown. The blood was washed away from his face and arms and bandages were placed over his wounds. Sherlock hardly seemed affected by the event or by the people in the room as he looked upwards at a television screen.

The detective glanced in their direction then back at the telly which was on some talk show about a woman cheating on her husband or not.

"If you're here to question me, Inspector," he said, in his normal monotone voice,"James Moriarty, or as most of the public knows him, Richard Brook, is back. I would suggest looking for him, but we both know you won't find him."

Lestrade sighed.

"I actually came to see how you were doing," he said,"And by the looks of it, you seem to back to normal."

"Is that surprising," Sherlock asked turning in their direction,"Considering how well I just to things?"

Lestrade was going to answer until he saw Sherlock was no longer looking at him. He was only looking at John. It was a look of happiness and relief. And John was giving the same look back.

Now he may not have been Sherlock Holmes, but Lestrade didn't need to investigate to know what was going on between the two.

Lestrade looked between the two slightly and raised his eyebrows.

"Well," he said,"I'd better be going. Got paper works and lots of it to do to get this pain in the ass back home. John. Sherlock."

And then Lestrade exited the room.

"How-How," John began nervously, clearing his throat,"How are you feeling?"

"Better," Sherlock said, smiling slightly,"Lots better."

John walked over to the bed and looked at the bandages on Sherlock's wrists.

Sherlock noticed and closed his eyes.

"John," he said,"Don't."

"I'm not doing anything."

Sherlock turned back to look at his blogger.

"You're blaming yourself," Sherlock said,"Your eyebrows furrow, your lips tighten, you swallow hard, and clench your hands into fists. He would have found me anyways. We both know it."

John remained silent as he sat down next to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John and he furrowed his eyebrows.

"So what are you watching?" John asked.

"John," Sherlock said.

"You know," John continued,"Mrs. Hudson and I always watch this one soap that comes on around this time."

Sherlock reached out and touched John's hand that laid on the arm rest.

"John," he said.

John furrowed his eyebrows and looked at the hands touching.

"There was nothing you could do," Sherlock said,"To have stopped this."

"I know. I know," John said,"I just. If I lost you again. I couldn't. I couldn't live with myself."

"John," Sherlock said, and the doctor looked up this time,"You're not going to lose me."

John looked at Sherlock and silence filled the air for brief moment as the two gazed into each other's eyes, and suddenly John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock.

Sherlock closed his eyes. It wasn't like when Moriarty kissed him. That was all lust and control. This. This was something else entirely. It was filled with love and caring. All about the other person and their happiness.

And for a moment. Just for one moment, Sherlock Holmes felt like he was flying, not falling.


End file.
